


Secrets Washed Ashore

by Nesel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BioShock Fusion, M/M, That's it, some story's have plot some have porn some have in-depth character studies, this is four thoughts in a Trenchcoat pretending to be a plot, this story has vibes, you don't need to know bioshock for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28593738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nesel/pseuds/Nesel
Summary: „Darling. To what do I owe this pleasure?“Darling. His brow furrows on its own before he can stop himself.„Mr Eames“, he replies in a cool voice, not that it seems to have any impact on Eames.He just grins and replies: „Always so bloody formal.“ The whole thing is punctuated by the peanut Eames throws into his mouth.or: Arthur decides it's time to leave the city of Rapture behind.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Secrets Washed Ashore

**Author's Note:**

> This started because I saw some A/E fan art that reminded me of Bioshock, specifically the Burial at Sea DLC form Bioshock Infinite. All you need to know is Rapture is an underwater city utopia, except it ends up being more dystopian. Arthur is a P.I. and Eames is also there. 
> 
> Bathyspheres are underwater ski lifts, Splicers are what happens when you take your addiction to magical slug juice too far. The rest is unimportant.
> 
> (Also I wrote this like two years ago and never did anything with it, so apparently now is the time for this to be introduced to the world)

**Rapture, New Year’s Eve 1958**

  
  


10:28 a.m.

  
  


The room is dark and gloomy. Blue light falls through the blinds and paints the interior an interesting pattern, made from stripes of light and shadow. Warm yellow lights dance behind the glass window of the door, accompanied by excited chatter.

The room itself is mostly empty; bookshelves filled with various folders - organized alphabetically, of course - standing tall pressed to the walls. In the centre of the room, there are a desk and a chair.

At the desk and on the chair sits a man, dressed in an elegant three-piece suit, dark hair slicked back, in his right hand a cigarette - barely touching his lips - and his left reaching into the jacket’s pocket to retrieve a silver lighter.

Up above a fan is whirring softly, shortly joined by the sizzle of a flame coming to life.

The man leans forward, his face illuminated by the small flame, only to freeze when a shadow suddenly appears behind the door. With a soft click the lighter dies, swiftly returned into the suit jacket, the man’s eyes never leaving the shadowy figure.

The door swings open, revealing a man in a sand-coloured suit, dark hair, cold, calculating eyes, thin moustache.

He steps in, letting the door close behind him. „Mr King“, he addresses the man seated in front of him, taking his time as he lets the words slowly escape his lips, curled in a distasteful fashion.

„Please, take a seat,“ the man called King responds, motioning to the chair resting in front of the desk. If he's offended by the other's displeasure, he doesn't show.

The visitor moves with careful purpose, slowly slipping into the chair. His presence takes up the entire room, taking over every inch like thick fog.

„How can I help you?“ Mr King, leans forward, shielding his desk as he does so.

„Arthur...“, the stranger lets his fingers trail along the bronze nameplate - 'Arthur King, P. I.'- resting on the desk. „I can call you Arthur, can‘t I?“ It sounds more like a statement than a question, and he doesn‘t wait for an answer.

„I want Atlas, and if the word about you is true, you already knew that.“

Arthur smiles, tight-lipped.

"I may have had some suspicions."

The other man chuckles and strokes his thin moustache.

„Yes, Atlas. I have reason to believe he‘s holed up somewhere at Fontaine‘s“, he pauses for a second, „and I trust, that a man in your position and with your capabilities will figure how to get there without any problems. I want to know what his plans are.“ He pulls out a bundle of money and nonchalantly throws it on the table. It lands with a soft thud, sliding towards the edge where Arthur is seated, Benjamin Franklin frowning up at him. „There you go... The first half of your payment upfront. You‘ll get the rest once I have my answers. The faster you‘re done, the more it‘ll be worth to me. And whatever is worth something to me, should be worth a lot to you.“ He looks at Arthur, who simply nods. Then he rises from his chair, smoothing down the fabric of his suit.

„Pleasure doing business with you, Arthur.“ He tips his head.

„The pleasure is all mine, Mr Ryan.“

Mr Ryan offers a tight-lipped smile, which is everything but a friendly gesture. He leaves the way he came in, slowly, calm, with purpose. But even after he‘s gone, his presence still lingers, like a smell you just can‘t seem to get rid off.

The man called Arthur King doesn‘t move for what seems to be minutes. Carefully poised in his chair he listens until he can‘t hear him anymore. Andrew Ryan. For the man who created this city with no gods or kings, he certainly likes to behave like both. Too bad, that Arthur believes in neither.

He lifts the cigarette, almost forgotten, back to his mouth. The lighter clicks. Inhale. Exhale. Smoke fills the room. Arthur allows himself to smile.

(See, Andrew Ryan runs this city with an iron fist, even though he wants people to believe he doesn‘t. So when trouble shows its face, like for example, Frank Fontaine, it‘ll be dealt with accordingly. In this case, locked into its own building, separated from the city and lowered even further into the depths of the ocean.

Things are back to normal, but then rumours come bubbling up. Somebody sees the spot left by Frank Fontaine and decides to fill it. Somebody called Atlas. So people are getting anxious, Andrew Ryan becomes more and more irritated and Atlas thrives in the chaos he created without ever being physically present. In conclusion, the situation is _tense_ and Arthur is just waiting for someone to snap and for Rapture to fall apart. And then this „utopia“ will become a prison with no escape. 

They are at the bottom of the ocean after all.

Arthur sometimes thinks about seeing the stars again. He tries not to.)

2:03 p.m.

Arthur ignores the other customers in the gallery - not that there are many, it's in the early afternoon after all - and walks straight to the small bar area that is hidden away in one of the back corners. There's only one other man there, a barkeeper nowhere in sight. He's broad-shouldered, his dark blond hair short and gelled in a part. As he hears Arthur's approaching footsteps, he stops what he's doing (which seemed to be scribbling on a napkin) and swivels around on his barstool. His searching eyes land on Arthur and instantly light up with a spark of _something._ What, Arthur's not sure.

„Darling. To what do I owe this pleasure?“

Darling. His brow furrows on its own before he can stop himself.

„Mr Eames“, he replies in a cool voice, not that it seems to have any impact on Eames.

He just grins and replies: „Always so bloody formal.“ The whole thing is punctuated by the peanut Eames throws into his mouth.

„Eames.“ Arthur can barely conceal a sigh or his amusement, albeit reluctantly. He‘s pretty sure Eames can tell anyway because that‘s what Eames does. Where Arthur plays chess, Eames plays poker. They both don‘t tend to lose.

„Yes, darling?“ The easy smile still firmly rests on Eames‘ lips, but something in his eyes tells Arthur that he‘s paying close attention.

„I need you to get me into Cohen‘s party.“ He doesn‘t. Just yesterday he received the invitation which lays in the bottom drawer of his desk. Something Eames should know.

„What makes you think I could possibly do that?“ Eames is still smiling, but now Arthur‘s sure he has his full attention. They both know Arthur is very well aware of the fact who Eames works for.

„I‘m not stupid.“

„I concur. But these invitations aren‘t really something you could forge. So why don‘t you just sneak in on your own and ...?“,

Eames makes a vague gesture that could encapsulate everything or nothing. Arthur chooses to interpret it as ‚What are you doing?‘.

„I also do not have a death wish.“ That is about as straightforward as he can get. This is Andrew Ryan‘s city and that man has eyes and ears everywhere and if he figures out what Arthur‘s planning... let‘s just say, it‘d complicate things. Severely.

„Think you can‘t handle a couple of bunnies?“ _Will we run into trouble?_ The question is there, in the whitening of Eames' knuckles, where they grab the pen.

„I think Cohen and his men are quite frankly insane and wouldn‘t mind skinning someone alive and turning it into an artwork.“

The way he says artwork, makes clear of what exactly Arthur thinks of it. _I want you with me,_ he doesn't say but he feels it in his bones, in the tight coil of his shoulders. Maybe Eames can too.

„Well. I suppose then I‘ll have to take you as my date.“

Arthur rolls his eyes. Of course. He doesn‘t, however, object. His work here is done it seems. He turns to leave but at the corner, he hesitates.

„Mr Eames.“

„Yes, darling?“ Eames‘ eyes haven‘t left him, but the smile is gone now. (There he is, Eames. Peaking through the cracks.)

Arthur isn‘t prone to second-guessing himself. Usually, that‘s what gets people killed in his profession. But today he‘ll make an exception, because this? This is important.

„Maybe it would be to your benefit, to prepare for the worst. Or maybe even the best.“ He‘s getting dangerously close to the truth. Arthur tries to imagine what the sun used to feel like. (He can‘t.)

Behind him, Eames scowls contemplatively.

But Arthur‘s already gone. There‘s work to do, after all.

  
  
6:00 p.m.

„Twice in a day, today must be my lucky day“, a familiar voice announces from behind in mock surprise.

„Mr Eames, you‘re actually on time... which makes me the lucky one“, is Arthur‘s smooth reply as he turns around. He doesn‘t bother to conceal his eye-roll. He hopes it distracts Eames from the way his lips twitch into the smallest amused smile. From the way Eames‘ eyes light up mischievously, that might not be the case.

The man actually bothered to dress up. A dark charcoal suit, hair combed. Still not clean shaven and his bright orange tie matches the equally bright pocket square, but small victories. In his grasp two rabbit masks, one of which he hands Arthur.

„We both know I‘ve perfected the art of being fashionably late. You really should appreciate it more.“

Arthur decides to ignore that.

„Let‘s go.“ As he starts to head for the door, strong fingers wrap around his wrist. Eames‘ hands are warm and calloused in places that tell you exactly what type of man he is. What he‘s capable of.

„I think it‘s time you told me what this is about.“ It‘s not a question, his ocean grey eyes staring into Arthur‘s.

„Andrew Ryan stopped by earlier today. He wants me to figure out what Atlas is planning.“

„So naturally you decided to ask Sander Cohen about that.“

„I have no desire to talk to Sander Cohen at all. I am here because Anton Kinkaide will be here. He owes me a favor.“ He throws Eames a determined look before putting on the rabbit mask. Then he heads to the entrance, exhales carefully and knocks.

6:47 p.m.

Sander Cohen is, to put it lightly, a deranged lunatic and Arthur is very pleased to finally leave that place behind. He doesn‘t know what was worse, Cohen, standing in the middle room, illuminated, and painting the woman on the floor, as shocks were running through her body or the people in rabbit masks, scattered across the room, happily talking amongst themselves as jaunty music plays on the gramophone as if nothing were amiss. Arthur doesn‘t mind getting his hands dirty, there is certainly enough blood on them, that‘s for sure. This, however, is something he can‘t enjoy.

So he was glad when they finally found Kinkaide, although Eames wasn‘t much of a help, just cheerfully advising Arthur to „look for the social incompetence and I‘m sure you‘ll find him“ before he went to hunt down some drinks.

But they manage and they leave and Arthur feels like he can breathe again. They stand outside for a minute, silently, staring out of the big glass windows that keep the ocean at bay. City lights glimmer in the dark abyss. A whale swims by. When he isn‘t paying attention, a tiny smile sneaks itself onto Arthur‘s lips.

Eames is the first to talk.

„Well, I guess this is it. Pleasure doing business with you, as always“, he says with forced cheerfulness. At least Arthur thinks it is. You never know with Eames.

Arthur rolls his eyes.

„Don‘t make me ask.“

„Ask what, darling?“, he feigns ignorance, but the amusement in his voice betrays him.

„Main station. 10 sharp. Be prepared.“ Arthur turns on his heel, ignoring Eames behind him yelling:

„If you wanted another date, you could‘ve just asked!“

On his way out, he drops the mask into the nearest trash can. It feels very liberating.

10:15 p.m.

Suitcase in leather gloved hands, holstered guns pressed into his sides, Eames next to him. Inside the bathysphere, it‘s eerily quiet.

„Tell me, Arthur“, he draws out the name, „how does somebody come by a favour from Anton Kinkaide. As far as I know, that man hasn‘t left his apartment in years.“

Arthur throws Eames a look, that tells him exactly what he thinks about this conversation topic.

„Ah, no small talk then. I must say, it‘s been rather disappointing, the way you‘ve kept me in the dark. Don‘t you trust me anymore.“

„Too many ears“, he says. What he doesn‘t say is that he does trust Eames. Very much so. He trusts him to figure out what Arthur isn‘t saying, what he means with his silences, with carefully placed looks and the information he has let slip. But maybe ...

Eames interrupts his thoughts.

„And why would you care about what Ryan‘s little spies find out? Unless ...“, he gasps playfully, eyes comically wide, „you naughty boy.“ He leans in close and whispers into Arthur‘s ear. (Arthur can feel the warm breath on his skin sending shivers down his spine.) „You‘re not actually doing what Ryan asked you to. Pray tell, darling, why exactly are we going to Fontaine‘s then? Want to join ranks with Atlas and help him with his little revolution?“ He leans back.

Eames. Always reading him like an open book, especially when Arthur could use it the least.

How he loathes the little games Eames plays with him. What is he saying? What is he really saying? Arthur wishes he knew, that he could read Eames as easily as Eames him.

„I‘m sure you‘ll figure it out“, is his reply. (He wants to say _You know, Eames! Don‘t you know? You should! Can‘t you tell? Please_. But Arthur refuses.) He feels Eames‘ eyes on him, heavy, so he stares out of the round window in front of them. Not ready to bare more of his soul.

Rapture rests before them. What a magnificent city, shining brightly even in the deep dark sea.

In the glass, he can see Eames‘ reflection, dipped in the blue light, almost glowing. If Arthur's going to miss one thing about this damned place, it‘ll be this right here.

As they sink further into the depths of the ocean, Fontaine‘s suddenly rises from the ground. Glowing a faint blue light amongst the darkness of the sea. There‘s a tight knot sitting in his guts, he can barely keep his fingers from twitching. Because this is it. Arthur is so close.

The bathysphere docks into the connecting pod and Arthur pulls out a knife, ignoring the guns in their holster. He really hopes he won‘t have to use them. Not because he doesn‘t want to kill. Arthur doesn‘t mind. Maybe he should feel some regret at that thought, but he really doesn‘t. Hasn‘t been able to in a long time. Pity.

The point is: they are not alone down here, no matter how deserted it may seem. And sound is their worst enemy.

Eames doesn‘t even bat an eyelash at Arthur‘s hand, holding him back and pushing him to the side. This. This is where they click. Eames, damn him, ever so adept at reading Arthur, knows exactly when it‘s time to follow. When that stiff line of his shoulders becomes even more tense, muscles moving fluidly and quietly with scary efficiency. Eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly to the sight, listening. The man becomes the predator.

The door opens with a click and the whistle of air pressure being released. They don‘t move. They stay quiet. Once the door is entirely open and the noise has faded, all that is left is the slow drip drip drip of water falling to the ground.

Arthur takes a step forward, mindful not to make a sound. Listens. There. Breaths that are not his own or Eames‘, coming from the left. He throws Eames a look and Eames‘ expression tells him the same things. There is a splicer out there. And it is very close to them. Eames is still at the back of the bathysphere but Arthur inches even closer to the exit, back pressed close to the wall. From his new position, he can make out a faded shadow on the ground. And it‘s moving.

That‘s all the confirmation he needs. He takes one step forward, turns to the side and twists the arm with the knife upwards. The knife lodges itself neatly into the soft skin underneath his opponent‘s jaw. It is a man, roughly their age but the addiction has already sucked out all that was human. Now there is only an empty shell, driven by his need for more ADAM. The plasmids always take their toll.

Arthur twists his wrist and slashes his arm to the side. The body falls to the ground with a thud, decapitated, the head slowly rolling towards the bathysphere where Eames exits. He throws Arthur a questioning look and cracks his knuckles.

„Do you mind...?“, he asks, motioning towards the body. Arthur simply shakes his head and steps to the side. Fucking splicers. Fucking plasmids. Fucking ADAM. Fucking Andrew Ryan. He can‘t stand it anymore.

Eames seems to be busy rifling through the man‘s jacket, so Arthur allows himself to observe. To stare at him, for a second or two. Just not long enough for Eames to notice, he tells himself.

„Goddamn splicers“, Eames murmurs as he pulls out a faded leather wallet. It‘s empty except for a couple of coins.

„Goddamn plasmids“, is Arthur‘s reply.

Eames snorts.

„Ah yes. Your ever-present contempt for plasmids. Tell me, how is that working out for you?“ He gets up, wiping his hands on his pants and turns towards Arthur. The inquisitive look in his eyes makes Arthur think Eames is actually asking an entirely different question. But knowing Eames, that is probably always the case. Say some words, push some buttons, watch how people react. Read between the lines, read their posture, their gestures, their face. Arthur hates it, sometimes. A fascinating insect under a microscope, that‘s what he feels like.

„It seems to be working out better for me than for him.“ They both know he means the splicer but their eyes don‘t move away from each other.

Eventually, Arthur breaks away first after what felt like hours of staring. Baring his soul. He always is the first to go.

„Come on. We have to keep moving.“

11:08 p.m.

  
  


„Who says I want to come with you?“

Arthur almost stops in his tracks but then forces himself to keep going.

„Excuse me?“

„You‘re leaving. That‘s why we‘re at Fontaine‘s“, Eames appears next to Arthur, hands casually stuffed in his pockets. „Fontaine made a lot of money smuggling with goods from the mainland, so obviously his bathyspheres must be equipped to handle the pressure difference and be able to get someone to the surface. And that is exactly where you‘re headed.“

Arthur refuses to look at him. This has to be another one of Eames‘ games. A test. Because Arthur is sure Eames knew. Because Eames knows Arthur and Arthur made himself quite clear. For Eames at least.

„So again, I ask: who says I want to come with you?“

Arthurs spins around, trying to read Eames‘ face, to figure out what he‘s trying to say. But Eames‘ face is blank, his eyes void of any emotion, just piercing into Arthur‘s soul and he‘s once again painfully reminded that he can only read Eames so easily because Eames allows him to.

„Nobody is forcing you. Stay if you want“, he sounds bitter, venomous. Hurt. He‘s never been good at masking strong emotions, never really cared about it, to be quite honest, unless he needed to be professional. And that‘s just the damn problem. He hasn‘t been professional with Eames in a long time, no matter how hard he tried.

„Stay in this rotten city. You‘ve heard the rumours, too, you must‘ve. This carefully crafted utopia has been anything but that for a long time now. And after tonight, you‘d be lucky if there actually was a city left. You know war, don‘t tell me you don‘t know when it‘s approaching, hell, when it knocks at your door. So go back if you want to. If there‘s still something to go back to. This city is filled with drug addicts who have nothing left to shoot up their veins. I always knew you were someone who enjoyed playing with fire but I never figured you were stupid enough to have a death wish.“ He stops, chest heaving. Damn Eames and the things he does to him. How he makes him lose his composure, forget himself.

He defiantly stares into his eyes. A moment passes.

Two.

Three.

Eames grins.

„So you do care, Arthur.“

Arthur swears he‘s going to punch him.

„Asshole.“ 

Eames shrugs.

„Yes.“

Arthur will most definitely punch him.

He doesn‘t, though. Because that is when the splicers arrive. They broke the most important rule: Stay quiet.

Arthur draws his gun. They have already drawn enough attention to themselves, now it‘s just about efficiency.

11:21 p.m.

  
  


So here they are again. In another bathysphere, this time heading towards the surface. Both slowly bleeding to death.

„So, you knew?“ Arthur doesn‘t know why he says it. Maybe it‘s the thrill of being alive, of escaping. Maybe it‘s the blood loss.

Eames furrows his brow.

„Arthur, darling“ - he coughs up a little blood - „I need you to be a bit more concise with me. Knew what?“

„The whole plan. Everything.“

There it is again. That look. Like Eames is still trying to solve him. What even is there left to solve?

„Yes, Arthur.“ He sighs. „Of course, I knew. It wasn‘t that hard to follow the trail of breadcrumbs you left me. I knew since you asked me to get you into Cohen‘s. I know what you‘re capable of. You don‘t need me to get into Sander Cohen‘s party. I‘m pretty sure you were already invited.“

It takes Arthur a moment to figure out what it is. First, he thinks, the blood loss has made him even more lightheaded but then he realizes it‘s relief. He knew. Thank God, he knew. .... But then-

„Why all the questions?“

„Why didn‘t you answer?“

„I did answer.“

„No, you didn‘t. Not really.“ Eames‘ stare is so intense, Arthur wants to squirm. He refuses.

„Do you really need me to say it?“, he bites out, at last.

„Yes.“ And there he is. Eames. Finally. Reduced to the bones. All those misdirections and games left behind. Just plain Eames. Leaning at the wall, bleeding out. (So goddamn beautiful.)

„Because I was scared.“ Apparently, that‘s all he needed to say because Eames sighs contently and closes his eyes.

Arthur opens his mouth.

„No-“

„No sleeping, I know. I‘m not stupid.“

00:01 a.m.

  
  


„Hey, Eames... Happy New Year.“

„Happy New Year“

00:36 a.m.

  
  


„Can you remember the last time you saw the stars?“

00:54 a.m.

  
  


„Are those fireworks?“

00:55 a.m.

  
  


„Eames. I think we‘re close! Eames!“

00:56 a.m.

  
  


„Eames?“

1:02 a.m.

  
  


The ocean spits them out close to a beach, with a lighthouse shining in the distance. When the bathysphere's door refuses to budge, for a second there, Arthur almost panics before he manages to kick it open, using all the force he has left.

First, there is a big wave of salt water that almost rips Eames from Arthur‘s grip. Eames, who has been unconscious for a couple of minutes now.

First, there is the wave and then there is the beach. Cold, wet sand. And then. Finally. There are the stars. His breath is jittery and he feels like crying. Something inside of him breaks. Or maybe something broken has just been mended.

He looks at Eames. Still breathing.

He looks at the stars. This is real.

He doesn‘t remember much after that.

1:02 a.m.

  
  


Arthur blinks. Shakes his wrist. Huh. His watch seems to be stuck. He closes his eyes again.

1:02 a.m.

  
  


Arthur blinks. There are voices. Hushed. Speaking a language he doesn‘t understand. 'Icelandic', supplies a helpful voice in the back of his head. He blinks again. Why is it so bright in here? Almost as if the sun ... Oh yes. Right. The sun. He made it. They... Eames! What about Eames?

Arthur jumps out of bed and almost crashes instantly. His only saving grace is the bedpost, he now clings to, trying to stabilize himself.

That‘s when the door opens and a middle-aged woman walks in. She is wearing a simple blue dress and a kind smile. Close behind her is a man, slightly taller than her, dark brown hair. Arthur has never seen either of them before.

She talks to him in Icelandic and animatedly waves her hands, motioning from him to the man behind her. Arthur can make out 'Doctor'. The woman and the man both appear to be wearing matching rings. So her husband is a doctor, is maybe what she‘s trying to say.

„Where- where is he?“ His voice sounds rough like it hasn‘t been used in days which might be true.

The woman furrows her brow for a moment, thinking, but then the bright smile returns.

„Oh, yes. Your friend?“

Arthur nods.

„Come with me“, she holds out her hand and Arthur grabs it, not thinking about it too much and she pulls him with her. Out of the room, through a nice hallway, decorated with pictures of flowery fields and plush carpets. Pulls him into another room.

His eyes land on a yellow vase. Then a dark desk. Then the bed. Then Eames.

„Darling, finally awake I see“, Eames looks up from the newspaper he‘s reading. It‘s in Icelandic. Of course, Eames knows Icelandic.

Arthur really doesn‘t know what to say or do, so he just says the first thing that comes to mind.

„Asshole.“ He steps forward.

„You‘re alive.“ He meant it to come out as a simple statement, but there is so much wonder and amazement in his voice. He can‘t bring himself to regret that, because, yes, Eames is alive.

He takes another step. Now he‘s right next to Eames who still hasn‘t moved from his bed. They both don‘t notice that they are now alone in the room. The woman and her husband have left, smiling to themselves.

„It appears so. I‘m sorry, I would‘ve visited you sooner, but Aaron tells me I need to stay here until this thing“, he pats his leg, „is healed.“ Eames‘ voice sounds cheery, but his eyes, trained on Arthur, say something else. They say you‘re alive. We‘re alive. Look, Arthur, the sun is shining.

Arthur does the only thing he can think of. He frames Eames‘ face with his hands, thumbs caressing cheekbones, rough blond stubble underneath his palms. He looks into Eames‘ eyes and he sees his own wonder reflected. They‘re alive.

And then he does the only thing that is left to do. He kisses Eames. Or maybe Eames kisses him.

And outside, the sun is shining.

1:02 p.m.

It‘s been a week and he has finally gotten his watch fixed. There is a plane waiting somewhere out there for him, his suitcase is already packed. But he still needs to say goodbye.

Eames can tell something has changed, the minute Arthur steps through the door. He‘s still confined to bed but already looks much stronger. Also, at this moment, apprehensive.

„You‘re not staying, are you?“

Arthur shakes his head, stepping close to the bed.

„I‘ve got business to attend to.“ - buried in his suitcase lies a letter from an old friend, asking for help - „But“, he pauses, then smiles, „ I‘m sure a man of your capabilities will have no problems catching up.“

Eames smiles too.

„Don‘t insult me, Arthur.“

They kiss for what feels like the last time. They both hope it‘s not.

Outside, the sun is still shining.

**Paris, New Year‘s Eve 1960**

  
  


05:32 p.m.

  
  


„I‘m sorry, Sir. It seems you have dropped this.“ A hand appears in Arthur‘s vision, his wallet in hand, which Arthur is sure he hasn‘t dropped. He lets his eyes trail up the arm in front in him, up to that familiar stubble on the chin. Those lips pulled into a playful smirk. Eyes, trained on him, unreadable.

„Mr Eames. Took you long enough.“

(There he is again. Eames. Just Eames, bare to the bones, looking right into his soul.

Arthur doesn‘t seem to mind it, anymore.)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that and if you didn't, don't tell me, I'm fragile.


End file.
